


Midnight Fight Club

by minervamylove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Multi, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, draco is as lost as the rest of them, ginny weasley fights inanimate objects, lavender brown is dead (sorry), minnie mcgonagall's lost causes club, neville and hannah are the mom friends, the DA kids sure miss the Room of Requirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minervamylove/pseuds/minervamylove
Summary: It's been months since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the war. The castle has been rebuilt and school is back in session. But the students of Hogwarts, particularly the returning "eighth years," aren't quite sure how to handle a post-war world and a return to civilian life.





	1. Chapter 1

It had started, like so many of Harry’s school-day adventures, innocently and unobtrusively enough. Just the four of them in the eighth-year common room: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny. The whole setup was reminiscent of earlier, happier days, of playing Exploding Snap and cheating at Divination homework in front of the fireplace in Gryffindor tower. Except, of course, the new eighth-year dormitories were on the seventh floor, near the reconstructed tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy— Hermione’s idea— and Ginny wasn’t, strictly speaking, supposed to be there. 

She’d raged and railed at McGonagall about it, but the Headmistress (who was also still Head of Gryffindor, due to the lack of another properly affiliated teacher who wasn’t Hagrid) had remained firm. First through seventh year students would remain in their House dormitories, end of discussion. Only the returning eighth-years, strange, misfit creatures that they were, would live in the new inter-House space. 

“They’re all of age, Miss Weasley. Their circumstances and yours are not the same.” 

But what McGonagall hadn’t realized, at least at the beginning of the year, was that they _were_. Maybe Ginny couldn’t get an Apparition license. Maybe she still had the Trace on her. But what could any of that possibly mean, Harry wondered, when at the end of the day they all had the same damage? Ron and Ginny Weasley may have been separated by a year and by the nebulous barrier of legal adulthood, but they had both dueled Death Eaters. They had both endured torture and starvation. They had both lost a brother in the war. But only Ginny was exiled to the haunt of their childhood, where she had to listen to Romilda Vane deny that she snored, instead of sitting with the other battle veterans in the eighth-years’ small kitchen, drinking tea and quietly discussing the nightmares that plagued them. Luna, Ginny had mentioned, was going through something similar, but being Luna, _she_ didn’t complain. Ginny had no such compunctions. But when arguing with McGonagall yielded no result, she had simply shown up outside the eighth-year common room entrance, sat down on the floor, and refused to move until someone gave her the password. 

Harry had given it up rather quickly, truth be told. 

Soon, Ginny had become a fixture in the eight-year space. No one really minded. Harry minded least of all. 

On this particular night, Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys had the common room to themselves. Most of the group had taken themselves off to the adjoining kitchen, where Hannah Abbott was plying them with the results of a new cake recipe. Noticeably absent were Dean and Seamus, no doubt busy snogging furiously in their room to make up for seven years of lost time, and the resident Slytherins, who tended unsurprisingly towards antisocial behavior. Ron and Hermione were twined together on the sofa, Hermione curled like a cat under Ron’s outstretched arm. Harry had laid claim to his favorite armchair, and Ginny was sprawled on the floor with Crookshanks, flicking quill nibs and bits of parchment at the bewildered half-kneazle and reminding Harry strongly of their summer at 12 Grimmauld Place. 

“I miss the DA,” Ginny said suddenly, breaking the sleepy spell that had claimed the room’s other occupants. Harry looked down at her. Nothing about Ginny was _settled_ or _comfortable_ , the way Ron and Hermione were. Her red hair was coming out of its braid, and she was _tap-tap-tapping_ the peeling toe of her trainer against the floor in a frenzied staccato as her twitching fingers shot missile after missile at Crookshanks. Ginny looked the way Harry felt inside: restless. 

“I know what you mean,” Hermione said kindly. “The camaraderie was nice, wasn’t it?” She paused. “I suppose that what Professor McGonagall was trying to cultivate with all of this.” She waved a hand vaguely, encompassing the general vicinity of the eighth-year quarters. 

“No, no.” Ginny got to her feet, brushing her hands off against her jeans and proceeding to pace back and forth along the length of the sofa. “That’s not it at all. I miss the fighting. The practice duels. Blowing up bookcases with _Reducto_ and bat-bogeying Fred and George whenever I felt like it.” She winced, and so did the others, who were certain that she hadn’t actually meant to say Fred’s name. It had been almost six months, but it was still too soon. “I’m going spare. Flitwick’s had me in detention twice for hexing in corridors, and I’m losing points for Gryffindor by the bucket.” She said this last bit with a dismissive gesture, making sure to convey that she couldn’t actually be arsed about House points. “And Quidditch! I’ve already committed every foul short of actually grabbing a Beater’s bat and pummeling someone with it!” 

“ _Every_ foul?” Ron asked, looking both curious and horrified. “How’ve we missed—”

Hermione cut him off. “Hyperbole, Ronald.” She peered at Ginny with a shrewd look that reminded Harry uncannily of McGonagall. “So you’re saying you need an outlet.” 

“I need to bloody well _curse_ something, Hermione.” Ginny paused in her pacing, turning around to look each of the others in the eyes. “Don’t you all feel it? Feel your hands twitch towards your wands when someone comes around a corner?” 

Harry knew exactly what Ginny meant. He had been nearby, the first time she had been awarded detention for using a Full Body-Bind on a Ravenclaw seventh-year. He’d seen the look in Ginny’s eyes when the Ravenclaw had appeared too suddenly out of a door. She hadn’t been attacking a fellow student; she’d been taking aim at the specters of the war. Harry’s wand had been out as well, though Ginny was faster. They all saw ghosts in the corners of their eyes these days.

He stood up. “Curse me, Gin.” 

Ginny turned away from Ron and Hermione, regarding Harry with an odd look in her wide brown eyes. It was the kind of expression that said _Harry, you’re mad._ It was the kind of expression that said _Harry, you’re mad, and I like it._

Ron and Hermione just goggled at him. 

“Mate,” Ron said slowly, “What’re you—”

“Curse me,” Harry repeated. “Look, I’ve got my wand, I’m hardly defenseless. It’ll be like a practice duel. Like the DA.”

“Harry,” said Hermione, her voice going up an octave like it always did when she was nervous, “I’m not sure this is a good—”

“ _Stupefy!”_ Ginny’s Stunner came without warning, but that was all right. Harry hadn’t needed one. He repelled her attack with a wordless Shield Charm, doing his best to ignore the little twinge in his gut that always accompanied his nonverbal spellwork. It reminded him uncomfortably of Snape, of his taunts and jibes on the night of Dumbledore’s death that had forced Harry to take nonverbal casting seriously. As a rule, Harry didn’t like to think of that night. Or Snape. Or Dumbledore. 

Harry pushed away the memories and shot a Jelly-Legs Jinx at Ginny, out loud this time. “ _Locomotor Wibbly!_ ” 

She neatly dodged the jinx and countered, much to Harry’s surprise, with one of Snape’s spells from the Half-Blood Prince’s Potions textbook. “ _Levicorpus!_ ” 

Harry found himself being swept up towards the ceiling by his ankle. He shot a nonverbal Stunner at Ginny, and once again, she didn’t bother with a Shield Charm— but this time it wasn’t because she decided to dodge it physically. Rather, Harry’s upside-down aim was so laughably off that the Stunner missed Ginny by nearly two meters, sailing over the sofa instead and sending Ron and Hermione ducking. 

“Oi!” 

The shout came from the direction of the kitchen. From what Harry could see (although his glasses had slipped off, so that really wasn’t much), it was Neville doing the shouting, from his position next to the Stunned body of a girl— Harry thought it was one of the Patil twins, but he really couldn’t be sure. 

Hermione was on the scene in an instant, murmuring “ _Renervate,_ ” over Padma or Parvati or whoever it was. “So sorry, Padma. Harry and Ginny are being idiots.” Harry could hear the glare in Hermione’s voice as she helped Padma to her feet. 

“ _Liberacorpus_ ,” Ginny muttered. Harry crashed to the floor. Then Ginny was at his side, pulling him up easily, as if he didn’t outweigh her by nearly seventy pounds. “That was brilliant,” she whispered, swiping her hands over his shoulders as if to dust him off. “Rematch?” 

“When Hermione’s not looking.” Harry wrapped an arm around Ginny without really thinking about it, giving her shoulder a squeeze. Ginny looked up at him, and in that moment Harry would have sworn that her eyes were on fire, alight as they were with mischief and satisfaction and… something else, something that brought to mind the fleeting kisses he’d shared with her in sixth year. He squeezed her arm one more time, then hurried across the room to apologize to Padma. There would be time for kisses— both remembered and, he hoped, reenacted— later. 

“I’m sorry, Padma. Ginny and I were just fooling around. I got a little carried away, and I was, well… upside down.”

Padma just laughed. “Your aim needs work, that’s for sure. However did you manage to instruct us when you can’t Stun the broad side of a barn?” 

Ron popped his head up over the back of the sofa. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is…” He took a deep breath and called up a surprisingly passable imitation of McGonagall’s Scottish brogue, “ _Sheer dumb luck_.” 

Harry, rather than answering, hit Ron with a nonverbal Tickling Charm. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Luna Lovegood turned up in the eighth-year common room the next evening, no one was surprised. Ginny had gotten in; everyone had known that it would only be a matter of time before Luna did too. No, the surprising thing was Dennis Creevey, trailing after Luna like a duckling, still small for his age, still looking too much like his dead older brother for anyone’s comfort. Fourteen, Harry thought, Dennis was fourteen now. The same age that Colin had been when he joined Dumbledore’s Army, a decision that had surely played a role in his tragic death that May. Harry wondered if Dennis blamed him, for turning Colin into a fighter. Merlin knew that Harry blamed himself more days than not.

“What’re you two doing, Lu?” Ginny asked curiously.

“You know,” Luna said, blinking her eyes in that owlish way that had always unsettled Harry just a little bit, no matter how much he cared for Luna.

Ginny stared at Luna for a moment, then blanched slightly. “Oh— _Merlin_ , Luna… hang on—” She crossed the room in a bound and stuck her head through the doorway to the kitchen.“Han— _argh,_ Neville, my _eyes_! Can you two delay the snogging for a bit? There’s a Hannah Situation.” Hannah emerged from the kitchen, smiling a little sheepishly, followed by a beet red Neville. She took one look at the mismatched pair by the door and seemed to surmise instantly what was needed.

“Dennis!” She exclaimed. “Exactly who I need! Would you mind giving me a hand? I’m attempting to teach Neville how to make a proper pie crust, but he’s a stubborn one.” Harry saw Hannah tread lightly on Neville’s foot when he gave her a quizzical look, and then Neville’s face lit up with understanding.

“Right,” he blustered good-naturedly. “I’m telling you, Hannah, you have to use lard! If it’s good enough for my grandmother it’s good enough for me.”

“Butter. _Butter,_ Neville, not lard. Come along, Dennis, let’s show him.” And with that, the dynamic domestic duo swept the slightly startled-looking boy into the kitchen with them, chattering all the while.

“What in the bloody hell’s a _Hannah Situation_?” Ron asked with a wrinkled forehead, having wandered into the common room from the stairwell and watched the latter half of the goings-on with a bemused expression.

“Sometimes,” Luna said serenely, “Food and warmth are the only things that will do.” Ron looked like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, but then something passed over his expression, and Harry thought perhaps he was thinking of home, of the way that the Burrow filled with laughter and scolding and the smell of Molly’s mince pies at Christmas. That, after all, was what Harry himself was thinking about. A sense of family, home, and parental care— hadn’t it always broken through his defenses and his despair? Why shouldn’t it do the same for Dennis Creevey? And of course, here at Hogwarts, the eighth-years had created their own home, their own family, in order to shelter each other from the heaviness of years past. And of course, no one at Hogwarts could mother like Hannah Abbott.

Harry squeezed Luna’s hand. “Thank you,” he said earnestly, gazing into her calm silvery eyes. “Thank you for bringing him here.”

Luna, as everyone had known was inevitable from the beginning, folded into the eighth-years’ lives without fuss. And whenever Dennis Creevy turned up looking lost, they always let him in.

What was less expected, perhaps, was the emergence of a new duo: Luna Lovegood and Parvati Patil. But, Harry later reflected, after seeing what Luna had instinctively done for Dennis, maybe it shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise after all.

Parvati was one of the more worrying cases amongst the student battle veterans. She spent more time alone than even some of the Slytherins, only leaving the bedroom she shared with Padma when it was strictly necessary. In fact, after some furtive mathematical calculation, Hermione and Padma had determined that Parvati’s brooding time was second only to that of Draco Malfoy, self-appointed prince of solitude. When Parvati did appear in the common room or the kitchen, she always looked… _wrong._ When Harry figured it out, the reason why his eyes were drawn to her and his brow furrowed, he could have kicked himself. Before the battle, when was the last time that anyone had seen Parvati Patil without Lavender Brown by her side? Parvati and Lavender had been so close, it seemed rather as if the surviving girl had lost a limb rather than a friend. Looking at Parvati moved Harry closer to tears than nearly anything else— there was a dead look in her eyes that made him wonder _what if_ , that made him imagine what his own life would be like if Ron or Hermione had perished in the battle. He’d lost so many people, too many, but he’d not lost the two people who were, truthfully, pieces of his heart.

Luna, though— Luna was intuitive. She was so, so wise beyond her years. She would disappear into Padma and Parvati’s room, and reappear a quarter or half hour later with Parvati hovering behind her as if she’d been tugged by a thread, or perhaps was just so entranced by Luna’s odd, gentle radiance that she couldn’t help but follow. Then the two girls would settle themselves on the edge of whatever social action was talking place, each with an ear cocked to the room at large but largely focused on the other. Parvati developed a fondness for brushing and plaiting Luna’s long, straggly blonde hair, while Luna patiently wound string into bracelets and wire into earrings, decorating Parvati with homemade jewelry as if she were a Christmas tree. This went on for nearly two weeks before Padma dared to ask in a mock-serious tone what the two of them got up to before they joined the rest of the group in the common room.

Parvati responded with perfect equanimity: “We read Tarot, and then there’s generally some kissing.” She sounded like Luna, dreamy yet matter-of-fact, and her twin sister smiled.

* * *

Ginny and Harry, meanwhile, had reached a sort of impasse. It had been two weeks since their impromptu duel, give or take, and October was giving way to November, crunchy brown leaves blowing across the grounds from the Forbidden Forest. Nearly every night now, they met in the eighth-year common room, gathering a small crowd around them more often than not as they traded hexes and jinxes— Harry with growing steadiness, and Ginny with unmatched ferocity. The pastime was catching on; the other eighth years (and Luna) would also take it in turns to pair up and let off a little steam, but it was undeniable that Harry and Ginny’s duels were the main attraction. They were a visually fascinating pair, bright and dark and locked in what often resembled a violent ballet, and the other students would gladly hide behind furniture and duck errant spells in exchange for the privilege of watching them. The only spectator who didn’t seem amused by these proceedings was Hermione, to whom it often fell to repair splintered stools and smoldering armchairs, but she didn’t actually protest, not when it seemed to be doing her friends some good.

And the exercise _was_ doing Harry and Ginny good. Harry slept better at night, and Ginny had been in far fewer detentions lately. But it was also frustrating, this dance that they were doing. There was often a moment at the end of a duel when both of them would be flushed and panting, each still utterly focused on the other, and in these moments Harry wanted nothing more than to surge forward and clasp Ginny to him. He wanted to feel her shoulder blades in his hands, to feel her shoulders heaving as she drew deep breaths, to bury his nose in her bright red hair and inhale the scent of her: floral perfume and sweat, a wild and vital combination. He wanted to guide her lips to his, _better than firewhiskey._ But something always stopped him. Of course, first of all there was the fact that they were surrounded by their classmates, and what Harry felt for Ginny was so personal— his own private wildfire. He was no longer the sixteen-year-old who had kissed her in the Gryffindor common room during the post-Quidditch celebrations.

Secondly, and somewhat more seriously, Harry and Ginny simply hadn’t discussed the state of their relationship after the war. There had been bodies to bury, friends to mourn— hell, there had been _Fred_ to mourn. The Burrow had been full to bursting of Weasleys and friends and well-wishers all summer, and when Harry had spent time with Ginny it had always been with Ron and Hermione by their sides, sometimes joined by George or Percy or Charlie. They had all needed each other so badly that summer that even Ron and Hermione’s burgeoning relationship hadn’t taken precedence— they slept in threes and fours and fives in various Weasley bedrooms, comforted by the rising and falling of chests, by the sound of breathing that meant everyone here was alive.

Then there had been Hogwarts: classes to readjust to, some lingering structural repairs to help with, and a sense of community to foster. Harry was grateful for it, was grateful for every brick he could levitate into place and every fellow student he could connect with, but it hadn’t exactly created ample opportunities or excuses to be alone with Ginny, to ask her if she forgave him for leaving her alone that year. For trying to protect her at the expense of her own wishes. So the two swapped spells and heated looks, and Harry imagined the feel of her but didn’t attempt to act on his desires. _Soon_ , he told himself every night, after every duel. _Soon_.


End file.
